Falling Down and Deeper
by IronMansAChick
Summary: Continuation to the short 300 word fic I wrote yesterday called The First Dance. Sherlock is dealing with losing someone he loves to someone else and he's not sure if the pain he silently conceals with ever subside. After a few months of playing it cool and trying his best to live his life as normally as he could, he finally comes to terms that nothing will be the same.


**_May I just say I strongly recommend you read my other Fic The First Dance quickly before you come to this one. That was supposed to be a one shot but some one gave me an Idea to continue it, so therefore, I created this piece. The first dance is really not that long. And I guess you don't have to read it before you read this, but I think this is a lovely continuation to that one. So yeah. Hope you like it. :)_**

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For the rest of the duration of the wedding, Sherlock sat silently at a table nearby with a glass of festive champagne resting in his hand. He held up his limp head with his hand as he watched John and Mary continue dancing. No one noticed him. He was quite and in his own corner and not even Molly would bother looking at him as she had found someone else as well. He was thankful for that. He didn't want to be bothered at that exact moment.

He just sat and watched as the newly-weds smiled into each others shoulders, rocking back and forth, slowly orbiting. Slowly, he arose from his seat and calmly walked towards the front door.

He was confronted by the familiar face of Greg Lestrade who was had noticed him walk past while he was happily conversing to Mycroft, A man who he had never known before now, but Sherlock figured they were sharing stories about his past, due to the red blotches on Letrades face and amused gaze when he looked at Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" He said, smiling still.

"Cigarette" Sherlock answered bluntly. Lestrade exclaimed and "ahh" before turning back o Mycroft, who's eyes were boring into Sherlock, with a knowledge of that only his brother could have. They looked at each other for a long while until Mycroft gave his attention back to Lestrade and Sherlock walked away quietly.

The moment he stepped out of the building, the cold London air hit his face and he disclosed a long shallow breath. His eyes started burning so he closed them. Taking out his keys, Sherlock located his car and got it. He rubbed his face before started the engine and driving away.

He didn't go far. He only went a few blocks down. To a place where he could be left alone. He parked and sat. Not a sound was made for the longest time. It was complete and utter silence and Sherlock thought it was the most disgusting thing. In a flash of sudden rage he slammed his fist against the horn which honked loudly, his curls bouncing and hang gently off his head as he started sobbing. His hands gripped hard on the wheel as his let his head droop and his whole body shook.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he cried. It must have been a long time ago and he must have suppressed the memory. He felt as if everything was pouring through him, at this very moment. All the times he had been called a freak. All the time people had shot him down for doing the only thing he was capable of doing. For calling him a machine to the point where he had actually became one. All the times John Watson had defended him against those people.

John Watson. The only person Sherlock had ever let himself get close to, since Victor Trevor, who was Sherlocks only friend in uni. He died a while ago. John was kinder. He found John Watson the most tolerant. And Sherlock hated himself for allowing himself to fall in love with him, despite everything. But now it was too late.

He sobbed harder for a few minutes before stopping. He opened his eyes, staring down at the rugged floor, blankly. He sat there for almost thirty minutes before he finally straightened his posture and started the engine again, puling out of park and driving back to the building where John and Mary had most likely been done dancing for a while.

When he walked back through the front door, Lestrade stood there waiting.

"Cigarette?"

"I took a small detour."

"Ahh"

…

Several months had passed and Sherlock contained his feelings well enough. He had gone about life as best as he could. He solved cases and spent a great many of his afternoons with John, smiling and laughing. But it was still nothing like it had been before. John was still gone and Sherlock couldn't do anything to change it. Sherlock didn't want to change it. He liked seeing John happy. It made him the saddest sort of happy knowing John can have a life outside Sherlock and that John could be happy and taken care of.

Sherlock, however, considered himself a lost cause. There was only one person he could think of that significantly changed his life for the better, and he felt his grip on him to be growing weaker and weaker, slowly dissipating from reality itself.

"John," Sherlock said to John one night. John looked up, smiling and bright eyed as he had been telling Sherlock a ridiculous story about a horrid evening John had spent with Mary, "John, can I tell you something?"

"Yes of course, Sherlock."

"I'm happy," Began with a breath, "That you found a life. That you can actually settle down in"

"I..Uh," John said with crooked smile, considering Sherlocks sudden display of personal emotion, "Thank you."

"And I want you to know whatever happens next, you have no need to worry. Everything will be fine. You will be fine." Sherlock tried not to look in Johns eyes, but Johns smile had quickly faded and he could feel him roughly grab onto his shoulders and pull his face so that his eyes met his"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? Are you in danger? Is someone after you again? Do you need me?"

Sherlock pulled up one side of his mouth. He wanted to say yes. Yes, he was in danger. Yes, he needed him. but he said "No"

"No, of course, now. I'm fine. I'll always be fine. I was just saying."

John looked sternly at Sherlock Holmes before he reluctantly let go. For the whole rest of the meeting John kept a close eye on Sherlock. Every positive action Sherlock made began to feel forced and John sensed is. He recognized is as a detail. Lies had detail. Sherlock had taught his that himself.

When it was time to leave, John hugged Sherlock tight. Sherlock returned the gesture, as he knew it was the closest he would ever be to John ever again.

In 221b, there was already a pen an paper placed neatly next to a gun on the coffee table. Sherlock sat before them picking up the pen and scribbling something down, tearing it out and holding it, cupped in his hand, so that it would remain clean and legible. He took out a small pile of envelopes from his pocket and placed them gently on the table beside the gun. Each envelope carefully addressed to every person who had ever met anything good to him. There was even one for his mother and father and Mycroft.

He glided his hand over, cloing his long fingers over the gun handle before picking it up. He positioned in and smiled sadly. He always knew he would die young.

…..

John had phoned Lestrade the moment Sherlock had left and the two drove to 221b as fast as they could. The moment the two left the car, they heard the screams of Mrs Hudson who ran out.

"Oh.." She shouted, visibly in shock, "Oh God."

Lestrade and John looked at her for one second before immediately making assumptions and running passed her. Upstairs, the found that their fears had been correct.

On the floor, lay Sherlock Holmes. The worlds only consulting detective, dead with a gunshot wound to the head and he deadly weapon in his own hand. And his other hand, which had fallen closer toward the door and outstretched, was a note.

_Do you think he could have ever loved some one as cold as me_


End file.
